I wipe my hands on my apron and peek over the counter. A woman stands near the front case. I can’t tell whether she’s more interested in the cookies or scrolling through her phone—which is a common thing these days—so I stand there politely and wait so I don’t distract her.

But as she scrolls, she keeps glancing up at the menu above my head and then quickly back down every few seconds in a way that has me taking notice.

Then it dawns on me. She’s not looking at the menu. She’s looking at me.

Another jingle at the door. Another shuffle of feet into Cookie Cutter.

Then another.

What the hell is going on?

Sammy meets my eyes through the front glass window, almost as if to ask if I’m okay. I nod to which he does the same in kind.

They’re customers. Why would I ever need help with that? It’s exciting. Exhilarating. It’s income.

“May I help you?” I ask the first woman in line who’s still standing there with a flush in her cheeks and her phone angled up as if she’s taking a picture of the menu.

But before she can answer, another group of women in their late teens or early twenties file in. The five of them huddle together, whispering loudly. Are you sure? Do you think? I don’t understand how she did it?

They murmur to each other, their gazes flicking in my direction before snapping away when I catch them.

My stomach twists.

I know.

I know before I even reach for my phone, before my fingers start fumbling to unlock the screen.

The photos have leaked.

My fake wedding. My fake husband. My private moments.

The world knows.

My hand trembles as I scroll to find the pictures, but it doesn’t take long.

They. Are. Everywhere.

Jase’s hand on mine. His lips ghosting just above my skin. The stupidly intimate way he tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear like he’s been doing it for years. It’s all been captured, frozen in time, and sold to the world like a goddamn blockbuster premiere. A perfectly crafted moment, staged just right, and yet with so many good, personal memories behind them for me.

It’s fake. It’s nothing.

And yet, the tightness in my chest tells me I’m lying to myself.

But now, it’s out there for the world to devour. To criticize. To question.

For a second, an electric thrill zips through me.

It’s real now. We are real. Even if it’s just in headlines, in speculation, in tabloid gossip. It feels big. Overwhelming. I am officially Hendrix Gizmodo to the world.

Then the panic sets in.

I am not ready for this. Will I ever be?